


Masterpiece

by CourtingInsanity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Aristocrat Draco, DMHG - Freeform, F/M, Painter Hermione, dhr, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 06:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15285357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourtingInsanity/pseuds/CourtingInsanity
Summary: Hermione Granger is a young lady from London who is commissioned by the powerful aristocratic family, the Malfoys, to paint the coming-of-age portrait for their son, Draco. The Earl of Wiltshire (though he prefers to daydream that he is a member of the middle class) is quickly enraptured by his artist, and so begins a whirlwind romance set in Victorian England. A Muggle AU fic, written for "Age of Potter " hosted by Beyond the Book Fanfiction Nook.





	1. Leaving London

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [AgeOfPotter](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/AgeOfPotter) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Victorian era  
> The child of wealthy aristocrat has to sit for a portrait to commemorate their ‘coming of age’. They’ve become disillusioned with their life and are fascinated by the artist, much to the displeasure of their parents. The artist tries to remain professional, but love always finds a way.
> 
> ***Pairing up to Author***

Hermione Granger watched the scene below from her vantage point; the small window at the front of the apartment she shared with her father. Her hand rested on the cool glass as her gaze followed the squat man who had been hired to drive her to the train station. His name was Pettigrew, and he had a face like a rat; an amused smile broke across her face as she saw him struggle to lift her lone suitcase into the carriage. 

 

“You don’t need to do this,” her father’s voice was soft and sad. She turned to face him with a sigh. Mister Granger was a lanky man with dark curly hair, though the strands around his temples were slowly turning grey. He wore brown slacks and a matching button up shirt with a filthy apron wrapped tightly across his front. In his hands he held a rag, which he twisted between his fingers. Looking at him, one might mistake her father for a blacksmith. His nails were often dirty and sweat graced his brow, but rather than being proud of her father for his obvious toil, Hermione only felt mild revulsion. 

 

“Yes, I do.” She said, her tone resigned. 

 

Her father snapped his mouth shut, his lips pursed tightly together. Sadness pooled in his eyes and shone from the dark orbs that were so like his daughter’s. He nodded once and then turned from the doorway and disappeared down the narrow hallway. Hermione’s shoulders slumped as he left; she knew she was offending him by taking the job in Wiltshire, but she really didn’t have a choice. 

 

Her father was a dentist. Not a blacksmith or a barber, as most dental technicians were; just a dentist. It was not a lucrative business, nor was it a profession held in high esteem. Her father was sure that it would eventually become so, but as the years had passed since her mother’s untimely death, the only thing William Granger had become renowned for was his malpractice. 

 

More people had died as a result of his ‘modern’ way of tooth extraction; some lost too much blood, others couldn’t stand the pain. His reputation preceded him, but he could not know that because he never left the house; the house that they would soon lose, if Hermione did not take this job. 

 

She sighed again before turning away from the window. Below, her father was conversing with the coachman who would be taking her to the train station. Hermione crept slowly down the stairs, taking in each photograph as she passed them; there was one of her mother, and another of all three of them when Hermione had been eight years old. Finally, she reached the front door and exited her childhood home, knowing full well it may be for the last time. 

 

“Goodbye, Papa,” she said without looking at her father. “I shall write you as soon as I get to Wiltshire.” 

 

Her father did not reply and Hermione could not bare to meet his gaze, so she accepted the hand of the coachman, bunched her skirt in her other fist, and climbed into the back of the carriage. 

 

She had never been in a carriage before. She and her father lived in London, and their needs lay within walking distance. But now, she was heading to Wiltshire under the request of a rich family who had commissioned her to do a portrait for their son who had recently come of age. A need for such a display of obvious wealth was beyond Hermione’s comprehension, but they had offered her a handsome sum of money and their hospitality for the duration of her stay. The carriage had been sent by them, as had the train ticket; it was one way, as she was unsure how long it would take to complete the painting. 

 

The thought unnerved her as she settled against the back of the seat; she did not know when she would see her home or her father again. She blinked back tears as she admired the white gloves on her fingers, refusing to look back at her father as the carriage began to move down the cobbled streets. 

  
  
  
  


The train ride was uneventful, and by the time Hermione had disembarked in the late afternoon, she was more than ready to arrive at her final destination. She boarded another carriage, and she scratched at her neck, longing to be rid of the restrictive material of her only good dress. The rocking movement was more like the ocean on the roads of Wiltshire; nothing like the bumpy streets of London. It was enough to lull Hermione into a stupor as the chauffeur drove her towards her accommodation.

 

Malfoy Manor was a large, solid structure made from grey stone. It rose up from the surrounding hillside like it was simply part of the natural landscape. The carriage stopped outside the wrought iron gates. Beyond the black bars, Hermione could make out a small group of people clad in black and white waiting at the front of the house. 

 

The clunking and scraping of metal against stone rang through the evening air, and Hermione started in her seat as they began to roll forward again. A few moments later she arrived at the front door. There was a shuffle as the coachman dismounted and scurried to open the carriage door. 

 

Though Hermione’s instinct was to open the door and disembark herself, her mother had spent enough time grooming her for proper society; she supposed that wouldn’t be necessary now. She was a working woman, well versed in art and literature; what kind of man would be interested in such a wife?

 

“Miss Granger,” a tall man with a wide middle and impossibly skinny legs stepped forward. He was dressed in livery and his nose pointed to the sky as he greeted her. Hermione stifled a giggle at his pompous tone. “Welcome to Malfoy Manor.” 

 

“Thank you,” Hermione murmured, clasping her hands in front of her. 

 

“My name is Mister Dursley,” he continued. “I am the Head Butler and Lord Malfoy’s valet.” He did not extend his hand, and barrelled on before Hermione could utter a simple pleasantry in response. “You will be staying in the servant’s quarters; we hope you will find this arrangement satisfactory.”

 

“I’m sure it will be perfect.” 

 

Mister Dursley harrumphed and turned on his heel, heading back inside the house. 

 

A maid stepped forward and curtsied. “Miss Granger,” she smiled up at Hermione. “My name is Ginny. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your room.” 

 

A footman had stepped forward and picked up Hermione’s bag while the maid was talking . She raised her eyebrows and was about to suggest that she could carry her luggage herself, but thought better of it. 

 

“This way,” the maid smiled kindly again before lifting her skirts and gliding into the house. 

 

“His Lordship is finishing up some business in the study,” Ginny babbled, “and her Ladyship is lying down; she gets headaches in the evenings.” 

 

Hermione was barely paying attention as she followed behind the maid. She was too busy admiring the architecture and the artwork on the walls. 

 

The walls were made from panelled wood, and tapestries hung on almost every one of them. Bare walls held a variety of artwork, from portraits of regal looking people to beautiful landscapes that might have been painted from a dream. 

 

Hermione itched to touch them, to feel the texture of the canvas beneath her fingers, but she refrained. Instead, she clasped her hands behind her back and hurried to catch up with Ginny who now had a significant lead on the brunette guest. 

 

“Mister Dursley will be ringing the dinner bell any moment,” she said breathlessly. “Just ignore it; we have our dinner after they’re done upstairs. Feel free to unpack or rest,” she looked Hermione up and down once, “and perhaps put on something less...restrictive.” 

 

With a final grin, the maid left and Hermione flopped on to the rickety single bed behind her. She found it would be impossible not to like the maid, but if Ginny’s constant chatter was anything to go by, Hermione knew that her stay here would be exhausting. 


	2. Artist Amour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heir of the Malfoy estate meets the decidedly middle class commoner who has arrived in Wiltshire to paint his portrait. While she may smell faintly of varnish, she is anything but ugly or old...and that may prove dangerous for Draco.

The breakfast table was laden, as usual, with tea, crumpets, and an assortment of fruit and yoghurt. The spread was not what stopped eighteen-year-old Draco Malfoy in the doorway as he appeared in the dining room; it was the fact that both of his parents were seated at the table. His father was hidden behind a copy of today’s paper, and his mother was sipping tea gingerly from a China cup. 

 

“Mother,” he frowned as stepped towards the unusual scene, “are you quite well?”

 

Narcissa looked up at her son from beneath her eyelashes. “Of course,” she said haughtily. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

“It’s not like you to join us for breakfast.” Draco looked to his father as he sat down next to him, but the paper did not twitch. 

 

Narcissa made an impatient noise through her nose. “You have a job to do today,” she said stiffly. 

 

Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he busied himself making tea. “Oh? And what would that be?”

 

“The artist has arrived,” Narcissa said. “You will go to the library as soon as you are done here.”

 

“The artist?” 

 

“For your portrait.” 

 

“For my - ? Mother, that’s absurd!” 

 

“It’s tradition,” Narcissa shrugged one shoulder in an elegant display of nonchalance. 

 

“Sod tradition,” Draco sulked.

 

This got his father’s attention. “Draco,” Lucius warned. 

 

“It’s a farce!” Draco insisted, running a hand through his blond hair. “I don’t want a blasted picture of me hanging in the Manor! It’s butter upon bacon, Father” 

 

“I don’t know what that means, and I don’t care. And may I remind you,” his father finally lowered the paper and affixed him with a cold stare, “it’s not about what you want, son. It’s about the Malfoy legacy; you are my heir, and you have recently come of age. This is your birthright and you will honour it.”

 

“And if I refuse?” Dracos lip curled as he brought his tea cup to his mouth. 

 

“You do not have that option.” His father said with a note of finality before disappearing behind the paper again. 

 

Draco ground his teeth together but did not argue further; he knew it would do no good. His father was adamant that Draco should take over as Lord of the Manor before his twenty-first birthday. By that time, he should also be married. 

 

But Draco, while he once dreamt of such a life, no longer wanted to be paraded around like the peacocks in the front garden, as if he were someone to be feared. He had yearned for a simple life for some time now; he often found himself envying the help. What, with their crude humour and gay little parties; such a difference from the stuffy balls often held in his home. 

 

As if she could read his mind, Narcissa piped up again. “The ball planning is coming along,” she said. “I’ve invited the Greengrass sisters, and the Parkinson girl; I can never remember her name - “

 

“Pansy,” Draco supplied through gritted teeth; how anyone could forget the shrieking tone of that black haired banshee was beyond him. 

 

“ - and I’ve written a letter to the Bulstrodes as well,” Narcissa continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. “Is there anyone else you would like to add to the guest list?” 

 

“No,” Draco said sullenly, and bit into his crumpet. 

 

“Once the ball is over,” Narcissa’s tone was stern, “you will decide whom you wish to court.”

 

“Lucky me,” Draco deadpanned. 

 

Narcissa narrowed her eyes at her son. “Yes, lucky you. Do you have any idea how many would die to be in your shoes? To have the life you get to lead?” 

 

“Let them have it,” Draco shrugged as he pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “I don’t want it.” 

 

He turned to stalk from the room, but his father’s voice halted his movements. “In the library; you are expected.” 

 

Draco huffed, but nodded once. He knew there would be hell to pay if he did not meet with the artist. Though the last thing he felt like doing was sitting still for eons while an ugly old man who smelt like varnish asked him to turn this way and that, he knew the alternative was a berating in his father’s office and a weepy conversation with his mother. 

 

He arrived in the library on the third floor of the expansive house, and allowed the door to slam behind him. Storming in to the room, he saw the easel and paint stand near the window. The curtains had been opened so that he could see into the grounds. He frowned as he took in the set up; his favourite armchair had been placed in front of the bookshelves and he wondered if the artist was so late that he had not even begun to arrange the furniture yet. 

 

Draco huffed as frustration bubbled in his chest. The door on the other side of the room clicked shut and Draco prepared himself to meet the man who had been tasked to immortalise him in oils. He stepped forward as a figure appeared from behind more bookshelves; only it wasn’t a male…

 

“Oh,” Draco’s eyes went wide as he took in the woman before him. She had long brown ringlets which she had pulled back into an interesting knot on top of her head. Her dress was made of a light coloured cotton, and hung free about her figure with no trace of a corset or hoop beneath the skirt. 

 

“Hello,” she curtseyed politely. “My name is Hermione Granger.”

 

She offered her hand and Draco accepted it slowly, as if he were in a trance. “Hello,” he choked out as his grey eyes locked onto her chocolate brown ones. “Forgive me,” he shook himself as he let go of her hand. “My father told me to meet the painter in the library.” He gestured towards the easel behind him. “Obviously he’s running late.” He shot her a lopsided smile and felt a zing of pleasure rush up his spine as a light blush graced her cheeks.

 

“Mister Malfoy,” she said softly. “Did your father not mention the name of your artist?”

 

“No,” Draco shook his head, the smile sliding from his lips. 

 

“Well, let me introduce you,” she stepped around him and began to rummage in a wooden box that had been set up next to the easel. Draco stared as she pulled from it a square palette and several jars of pigment. She turned to face him, her arms laden with the paint supplies. As she opened her mouth to speak, Draco’s brain clicked into gear and he understood what was going on before she said it. “I’m your artist.”

 

He stared at her for a few long moments, blinking slowly. His brain whirred; was this his father’s idea of a sick joke? 

 

“You’re the…” he trailed off. 

 

“Are you quite alright, Sir?” Hermione stepped towards him, her expression scrunched in concern. 

  
“I’m fine,” Draco cleared his throat and forced himself to smile. “I just wasn’t expecting…”

 

“A woman?” 

 

He could have sworn her mouth twitched in a semblance of a smirk, but then she turned away from him to organise her palette. His hand twitched as if he wanted to reach forward and tug her back to face him. 

 

“It’s perfectly alright,” she was saying a she settled a large piece of canvas on the easel. “I know it’s not usually the done thing.” She positioned the heavy piece of wood on an angle, and Draco’s eyebrows shot up at the display of her strength. “Come on,” she said as she straightened. “Sit down for me.”

 

Draco moved robotically towards the armchair and folded himself into it as elegantly as he could manage. He frowned as he realised he could not see her from this angle; the canvas was in the way. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, Miss Granger.” He finally managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. 

 

A soft laugh floated from behind the canvas. “No need to apologise, Mister Malfoy,” she said. He thought she was going to continue, but whatever words were on her tongue must have died in her mouth. 

 

Silence filled the room, interspersed only by the sounds of lids being twisted off the pots of pigment, and coarse brush strokes as the colours were mixed on the palette. Draco felt the frustration from before return with a vengeance, only now he wasn’t upset about having to sit for a portrait; he just wanted to see her face. His mind was reeling; he was a highly sought after bachelor and one of the richest men in South Western England. Draco knew that with his name and fortune, he could have any woman he desired. 

 

Only, the women with similar social standings held no interest for him. The Greengrass sisters his mother had mentioned earlier were vapid creatures with less personality than wet rags. Pansy Parkinson was a character; he had known her since they were children, but she was also extremely bossy and he didn’t think he would have the energy to keep her in line once they were married. Millicent Bulstrode...Draco shuddered at the thought; she wasn’t entirely awful, but she reminded him of a troll, if such a thing should exist. He knew he was shallow, but Miss Bulstrode also had a personality to match; he had no desire to tame  _ that _ either. He sighed at the thought of having to dance with all of those women at the ball next month. His mother did love a charade, and his father never missed an opportunity to show off the Malfoy fortune. 

 

“Are you okay, Mister Malfoy?” 

 

Draco started at the sound of her voice. Miss Granger had appeared around the edge of the canvas, a paint brush in one hand and her palette in the other. 

 

“Fine,” he said with a quirk of his lips. “Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

 

She raised her eyebrows in what he took as an expression of sage understanding. “Just relax for me. Feel free to move; I’m not one of those artists that expect to paint a living statue.”

 

Draco chuckled but did as he was told. “I’m assuming you are well versed in the world of art,” he said. “Who else have you painted? Anyone I would know?”

 

“No,” came her voice from behind the canvas. “This is my first paying job.”

 

Draco’s eyebrows almost reached his hairline. “First job? Really?”

 

“Yes, Sir,” she said as the brush made swishing noises on the rough surface. “I received a letter from your father a few weeks ago outlining the details. I thought it was a cruel joke, at first.”

 

“Then how did he find you?”

 

“I’ve done other pieces back home, in London. Though I was not paid for them; I usually paint as a hobby,” she answered. “I guess he saw one of my portraits.”

 

“I see,” Draco said, though he really didn’t; it was not like his father at all to hire an unknown artist, and a woman no less!

 

They did not speak for the rest of the session, and Draco spent the next few hours in silent turmoil. He longed to stand and peer around the canvas just so that he could see her face. He caught glimpses as she ducked her head around to glance at him, but she never lingered for long. He imagined the creased lines of her forehead as she concentrated on her work, and fantasised about how her eyes would sparkle as she created the masterpiece. 

 

Not that he considered himself a masterpiece. 

 

“I think we’ll leave it there for today.” Her voice was soft as she set down the palette and her paintbrush, but Draco startled as if she had bellowed the words. 

 

“Oh,” he stood quickly as she stepped around the easel. “Thank you for your time.” 

 

“I will need to let this sit for a week,” she continued, busying herself with the tidying of her area. “Oils take time to dry between coats. I think a sitting per week should see this hanging on a wall within six months. Does the same time next week suit you?”

 

“Yes,” he said quickly, though in his mind he was already inventing ideas of how he could see her before the week was out. “I will see you then.”

 

Miss Granger curtsied and then spun on her heel to leave the room. Draco wondered if she would mind if he looked at the painting. He was itching to see how she had captured him, but then he didn’t want to offend her by judging an unfinished piece of artwork. 

 

The decision was made for him as the dinner bell rang. Had he really been in here that long? Glancing once more towards the door which led to the servant’s stairs, Draco felt a tug in his chest that suggested that he wished he could follow Miss Granger. 

 

Instead, he forced himself to walk in the opposite direction and make his way to his chambers, where his valet was waiting to dress him. He felt as if he were moving through water as he slipped into his dinner jacket; no woman had ever had this affect on him before, and it was slightly unnerving. 

 

When he arrived at dinner, his parents were already seated at the dinner table. 

 

“Draco,” his father drawled. “Nice of you to finally join us.”

 

“My apologies, Father,” Draco replied in his most pompous voice.

 

He took his seat in between his parents and allowed the footman to serve him. The fish was his favourite, but he seemed to have left his appetite in the library. Lucius and Narcissa made small talk for the duration of the meal, and Draco was happy that they chose not to include him. It meant that he could spend the time thinking of the way Miss Granger’s cheeks had flushed pink when she thought he had been upset over her gender. 

 

His peace was inevitably short lived. Soon, the plates had been cleared and Narcissa was excusing herself from the table. Lucius stood to bid her goodnight, and Draco mimicked his father’s movements. 

 

“Shall we go through to the drawing room?” Lucius turned his cold grey gaze on his son as the sound of Narcissa’s heels disappeared on the other side of the door. 

 

“Yes.” Draco nodded and placed his napkin on the table. 

 

In the drawing room, two cigars and a decanter of port had been laid on the ornate wooden table. Draco wandered to stand behind the offerings, his hands clasped behind his back.

 

“So,” his father began, shrugging out of his dinner coat and slipping into one of velvet. “How did you fair during your first portrait sitting?”

 

“Fine,” Draco frowned. “Though I must confess, I was rather startled upon meeting the artist.”

 

“Really?” Lucius wandered over to the table and selected a cigar. He placed it in his mouth, and struck a match to light it. 

 

“Yes,” Draco took a small step backwards as the smoke curled from his father’s mouth. He had never seen the draw of such a filthy habit, but his father would hear nothing of Draco’s protests. 

 

“What startled you exactly?” 

 

Draco quirked an eyebrow at his father who was regarding him shrewdly. He knew he would have to choose his words carefully; should Lucius think that he had the upper hand, then Draco knew the manipulative bastard would see to it that any future meetings with Miss Granger would be as awkward as possible for the young heir.

 

“Was it meant to be a joke? Or were you hoping to embarrass me?” Draco opted for a nonchalant tone, and hoped that his father would take it as such.

 

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Lucius said in a bored voice, looking over his shoulder as if he was expecting to be interrupted at any minute.

 

“She’s a woman!” Draco chortled, though it came out more as a strangled cry, and shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets.

 

“She’s the best,” his father turned back to face him and shrugged, though the movement was rather stiff. “Malfoys only have the best.”

 

“She did seem very well equipped,” Draco nodded but then quickly added, “for a woman.”

 

“You think so?” Lucius brought the cigar to his lips and took a long drag. 

 

“Yes,” Draco said, a little too emphatically.

 

“Miss Granger didn’t make you feel...uncomfortable?”

 

Draco frowned, confused. “No.”

 

“She’s pretty to look at,” Lucius eyed him skeptically and brought the cigar to his mouth again. “Don’t go getting any stupid ideas though, Draco. She’s middle class at best, and London trash at worst. She would not do for you.”

 

Draco felt his collar grow warm. “And what if I do find her esteemable? She’s an artist; she must be at least somewhat intelligent.”

 

Lucius chuckled. “My dear boy,” he said through a cloud of smoke, “all men  _ think _ they want an intelligent woman, but believe me when I tell you that there isn’t a fellow on the planet who has the time nor patience to deal with such a creature.” He arched an eyebrow, his mouth quirked into an all too familiar smirk. 

 

Draco scowled. “Maybe those men just don’t have what it takes to appreciate a woman with a brain.”

 

“Don’t even think about it,” Lucius’ voice had grown cold, and warning laced his words like a poisonous promise. “Your mother has worked herself sick to arrange the ball for October; you shall choose an appropriate bride on that night, from one of the approved families.” He took another drag on the cigar and stepped closer, so that there was less than a foot between the two men. Lucius blew the smoke into Draco’s face and it was all Draco could do to keep from choking on the cloud of bitter smelling ash. “If you are unable to contain yourself, I will find another artist; one with decidedly less desirable features, if you get my drift.”

 

Draco blanched and stumbled backwards. If he was being honest, he knew that this conversation was doomed from the start. He had only wanted to know the meaning behind Lucius’ interesting choice of artist; of course he had been unable to hide his infatuation with Miss Granger...had Lucius been counting on it? 

 

“Yes, Father.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think them; a well-rehearsed response which had been literally beaten into him as a child. He continued to walk backwards until he reached the door which led to the stairs that would take him to his bedroom. “Goodnight.”

 

Lucius nodded in response, placing the cigar back in his mouth and turning away from his son as Draco hurried from the room. 


	3. Melancholy Musings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco struggles to contain his infatuation with Hermione, but in trying to get to know her better, inadvertently stirs the melting pot of emotions simmering beneath the surface of the brunette's heart. Miss Granger is no wallflower though; she gives as good as she gets.

Exactly a week later, it was just Lucius and Draco at the breakfast table as usual. Narcissa had not joined them again since her first shocking appearance, for which Draco was grateful. They ate in silence, his father hidden behind the newspaper and Draco hurrying through his meal as if it would be his last one. 

 

He had not managed to see Miss Granger since their last sitting. While she was not expected to do anything except create Draco’s portrait, the rumours from downstairs suggested that she had taken it upon herself to help in the kitchen, much to the cook’s delight, and the kitchen maid’s angst. It was no surprise, then, that he did not wish to waste time eating when he could be spending it in the library with his newfound infatuation.

 

“Have a good day, Father,” he murmured as he excused himself from the table. 

 

When he reached the library, Draco found Miss Granger already standing behind the easel. Her hair was once again pulled back, and Draco stood in the doorway admiring the way the curls framed her porcelain face as if they were staging a protest against the clips she had used to try and contain it. She hummed to herself as she mixed pigments, and glanced between her palette and the canvas. He was captivated by the pout on her lips as she regarded her work with a frown. 

 

Stepping further in to the room with the intention of declaring himself, Draco watched as her expression changed. Her brown eyes met his and the frown disappeared to be replaced with an easy smile. 

 

“Good morning, Mister Malfoy.” Miss Granger curtsied. 

 

“Good morning,” he murmured in response. He longed to ask her to call him ‘Draco’. He wondered what his first name would sound like falling from her lips, but he also knew that it was improper to ask such a thing of a lady, especially as she was of lower social standing than he. 

 

“Shall we begin?” She gestured with her free hand to the armchair. 

 

He nodded and moved to sit down. “So,” he cleared his throat as she disappeared behind the canvas. “You said yesterday that you had travelled from London; what is it like there?”

 

“You’ve never been to London?” She countered, her tone incredulous.

 

“No,” Draco shook his head, even though she could not see the movement. “Father has been several times, but he says it is no place for his heir.”

 

Miss Granger made a sound halfway between a cough and a groan, but quickly smothered it. “I suppose he would be correct.” She paused for a moment, and the only sound that hung between them was the swishing of her brush as she spread the pigment on to the canvas. Just as Draco thought to ask the question again, Miss Granger stepped back from her work to peer at it through narrowed eyes. Then she spoke; “London is fine, I suppose.” She shrugged and returned to her work, but she continued to speak for which Draco was grateful. “It’s dirty in most places; loud, crowded, but…” her tongue flicked out over her bottom lip and Draco felt himself grow hot under the collar, despite the fact a cool breeze was blowing in from the open window, “...it’s home.” She finished. 

 

Draco swallowed thickly and willed himself to focus on something other than her mouth. “And your parents?” He asked quietly. 

 

“My mother passed away two years ago,” she answered quietly. Draco could not see her face but he imagined that it had fallen into a look of melancholy and he felt the urge deep within his chest to make her happy again. “I still have my father.”

 

“What does he do?” Draco grasped on to the idea of a living parent and hoped he hadn’t overstepped by asking such a question. Miss Granger paused. The sound of the paint brush against the canvas stopped and for a moment Draco believed he had gone too far; he barely knew the woman, and she was hired help. He was expected to sit silently so she could paint his blasted portrait, and then leave. Had he made her feel uncomfortable? 

 

She placed the palette on the small table next to the easel and busied herself mixing more pigment. Draco could see her face from this angle, and noted that her cheeks were flushed with high colour. “My father,” she straightened and was hidden behind the easel once more, “is a dentist.”

 

“A dentist?”

 

“Yes,” she said curtly. “A dentist.”

 

“Just a dentist?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’ve not heard of such a thing.”

 

Miss Granger scoffed. “No, it’s not usual to find a dentist who only deals in dentistry,” she conceded. 

 

“Was he once a blacksmith? Or a barber?” Draco enquired. 

 

“No.”

 

“I see.” But he didn’t, and he wanted to understand - desperately. He felt that he had asked too much of his artist though, as she offered no more to the conversation for the rest of the afternoon. 

 

Draco’s heart was beating erratically in his chest as he left the library a few hours later; he regretted ever asking her such a question, but he could not help it - he wanted to know her properly. He knew that it was impossible; his parents would never allow their union for one thing, and Miss Granger was a professional who clearly wasn’t interested in sullying her name with the likes of him. It was with a heavy heart that he wandered back to his chamber to prepare for dinner.

  
  
  
  


Hermione packed up as slowly as she could that evening, listening as Mister Malfoy’s footsteps retreated from the space. She let out a long exhale and closed her eyes. Her face still felt too warm, and she wondered if he had noticed; he probably had. Why did he have to ask her such a personal question? It was difficult for her to think about her father; of course she missed her mother, but she had come to terms with the loss of Jean Granger. What she hadn’t been able to accept is the fact that her father had allowed himself to become such a laughing stock without realising the way it affected his only daughter. 

 

Tears threatened at the corner of her eyes, but Hermione blinked them away and closed the lid of her painter’s box. Slowly, she made her way across the room and onto the stairwell. She stood for a moment, her back against the wall and her eyes closed as she forced her emotions back under control. 

 

“Hermione?” Ginny had appeared on the stairs, carrying a stack of linen. 

 

“Oh!” Hermione’s eyes snapped open and she pushed herself off of the wall. “I’m fine!” She said quickly, and moved around Ginny to ascend the stairs. 

 

“Hermione!” Ginny called, but Hermione ignored her. She needed to calm down before dinner. Her flat shoes clicked on the stone steps as she made her way to the servant’s quarters and into her bedroom. Ensuring the door was shut behind her, she turned and collapsed on to her bed and began to sob into the pillow. 

  
  
  


Draco spent the following week feeling like a wretch. Part of him longed to seek Miss Granger out and apologise for his behaviour, but the stronger part was too cowardly to demonstrate such shame. Instead, he bided his time, counting the minutes until their next portrait sitting. 

 

Hermione had used the same time to hide in her room, only coming out to help Mrs Weasley, the cook, at dinner times which ensured she would not run in to the young Master Malfoy. With every passing second, the ball of lead that seemed to have taken up residence in her stomach grew a little larger. 

 

By the time their next appointment had arrived, Hermione felt like a piece of linen that had spent too long on the wringer. As she made her way to the library, she reminded herself that above anything else, she was a professional, and that letting Mister Malfoy get under her skin - however unintentional it may have been on his part - would not end well for her. She adopted an air of cool distance as she entered the room, a bag of freshly cleaned paintbrushes tucked under her arm. 

 

“Miss Granger,” he greeted her from where he was lounging on the armchair. “I wondered whether you would show up, after my horrible display of ignorance last week.” His words were clipped, the perfect enunciation of the well bred, but his tone was sincere and Hermione felt herself being drawn towards him as if an invisible thread were connecting the two of them, all of her previous conviction evaporating like steam off a boiler. 

 

“I don’t know what you - “ she feigned nonchalance, but he held his hand up as she approached the easel and she clamped her mouth shut. 

 

“Please,” he stood and took a step towards her. “I must apologise for my crass intrusion into your personal life; it is not my place, and it was very rude of me to press you like that.”

 

“Mister Malfoy, I assure you, I am not offended.” 

 

She meant it; he had not offended her - not in the slightest. It was more that he had picked at the scabs she had so carefully grown over her wounds and made her relive them in all of their gory splendour.

 

He released a long sigh and she watched the tension ease somewhat from his shoulders. “I felt awful when I left you.”

 

The implication of his words hung between them. He hadn’t meant to imply that he had not wanted to leave her, regardless of his inappropriate prying, but as the words fell from his lips, he admitted that  that was what his statement had sounded like. Draco watched as her eyes grew wide and he wondered if he should feel the urge to take it back; he found that he actually quite liked the way Miss Granger’s cheeks had grown a delicious shade of pink. He bit down on a smirk and waited for her obvious shock to subside. 

 

“I accept your apology,” she said, once her faculties had returned. “Shall we get on with today’s session?”

 

“Yes, let’s.” He smiled then, before retreating back to his armchair and sitting down. He watched with intrigue as she busied herself with the pigments; if he was not mistaken, her hands were shaking ever so slightly. 

 

“Mister Malfoy?” Her voice rose on the last syllable, and Draco’s gaze snapped back to hers. Only, she wasn’t looking at him; instead, she was watching her hand as it brushed lazily against the canvas. 

 

“Yes?” 

 

“I was wondering,” she paused and shot a furtive glance his way, “if you would mind telling me about  _ your  _ parents.”

 

“My parents?”

 

“Yes. I know that they are the Marquees and Marchioness of Wiltshire; but I don’t know anything about them aside from that. I feel that it is a bit odd, considering how handsomely they are paying me to complete this portrait of you.”

 

“There isn’t much else to know,” Draco answered. He was perplexed at her question, but he hoped that it meant that she really had forgiven him for his prying yesterday. “Father runs the county, and mother organises balls. That’s really all there is to them.”

 

“What about you?”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes. What is your title?”

 

“I am the Earl of Wiltshire,” he said flatly. “Though I do not take as much pride in it as my parents wish.”

 

“Oh?” She had returned to painting now, her tongue darting to the corner of her mouth. 

 

“I have my own ideas of how the Manorship should be run,” he uttered slowly. “My ideas do not match my father’s visions; let’s leave it at that.” Silence fell between them and he wondered if she had asked on purpose, to repay him for her chagrin. 

 

“I’m sorry.” Her soft voice brought his attention back towards the easel. He recognised the sincerity of her apology in her eyes and he felt his expression soften. “I should not have been so bold.”

 

“It’s fine,” he waved a hand nonchalantly before repositioning himself on the armchair. 

 

Silence fell once more, though Draco found that it was not uncomfortable. The coarse bristles of the paint brush made an odd musical sound as they danced across the canvas, and Draco soon found himself mesmerised by it. 

 

A few hours later, Hermione’s hand had grown tired, and she requested a short break. 

 

“Of course,” Draco agreed, standing quickly. He fought the dizziness this movement brought on, and grinned down at her. “Do you like to read, Miss Granger?”

 

“Oh, I love it!” Her eyes lit up and she clapped her hands together. 

 

“Come with me.” He motioned for her to follow him with a quirk of his head and Hermione fell in to step behind him. They wove through bookcases lined with many tomes bound in a deep green colour. “Do you like Dickens?” He asked, coming to a stop in front of a bookcase by the servant’s entry door. 

 

“Do I?” The grin on her face was his answer. 

 

He returned the smile and ran a finger along the book spines until he came to the one he was looking for. Hermione watched, her mouth slightly agape; she had read enough literature to understand the feeling pooling in her abdomen, but she was still shocked at the reason for it. 

 

_ Snap out of it, _ she scolded herself,  _ it isn’t proper to have erotic thoughts about the Malfoy heir! Especially when his parents are paying your way! _

 

“ _ Hard Times _ ?”

 

_ Did he just - ? Oh… _

 

“I love that one,” she heard herself say, though her voice was mechanical to her ears. She watched his face fall slightly, mistaking her flustered appearance for insincerity. 

 

“I also have  _ A Tale of Two Cities… _ ” He reached for another tome, but Hermione caught his hand in hers before she could think about what she was doing. 

 

“No!” She said quickly, dropping his hand in the same note. “I apologise. I was just overwhelmed by the volume of books you have here,” she gestured half-heartedly around them. 

 

_ Get back to the painting, _ the chastising voice in her head demanded. 

 

If Draco noticed an outward display of the inner turmoil she was currently experiencing, he did not show it. Instead, he smiled in a knowing sort of way and nodded back towards where the easel was set up. “Shall we reconvene? I was thinking I could read aloud while you paint.”

 

Hermione felt her face grow warm and she looked away from him as she replied. “I’d like that.”


	4. Enamoured with the Earl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione finally admits that she feels something more for Draco than strictly appropriate for an artist and their ridiculously rich client. Draco latches on to this admittance, and begins to imagine a future with the woman who has so completely stolen his heart.

For the next two months, that was how they spent their time. At their weekly meetings, Hermione would paint and Draco would sit poised in the armchair, reading aloud from novels by Dickens, Austen, and the Bronte sisters. 

 

Hermione could tell, over the course of their sessions, that Mister Malfoy was quite fond of her. And that thought terrified her. It wasn’t that she did not find him endearing; she did - probably too much so, if she was being completely honest. She found herself becoming idle during her time between her painting sessions with the Malfoy heir. Instead of visiting Mrs Weasley and helping out in the kitchens, she found herself lolling about in her room, daydreaming of Mister Malfoy’s platinum blond hair; would it be silky between her fingers? And his eyes - oh, how she loved to dwell on the depth of their colour. 

 

Towards the end of the second month of her term at Malfoy Manor, Hermione finally accepted that she had feelings for the young heir - but that did not mean she could act on them. She had done a fine job of avoiding him, even as she returned to her chores in the kitchen. Unfortunately, she had done such a good job of avoiding Draco, that she had become complacent, and should therefore not have been as surprised when he finally ran into her three days after their last session...

 

“Miss Granger!” 

 

The sound came from above her head as she collided with a solid chest on her way down to the kitchens. She had meant to visit Ginny, and instead found herself in the arms of the man who had taken up residence in her mind. 

 

“Mister Malfoy!” She gasped as she stumbled backwards, pushing herself from his grasp. “My apologies, Sir, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” 

 

“It’s quite alright,” he assured her, a slow grin spreading across his face. 

 

“Forgive me,” she licked her lips and hoped that he could not hear her heart thudding uncomfortably in her chest, “but what are you doing down here?”

 

He chuckled at her question; or perhaps at the audacity she had to ask it. “I was looking for you, actually.”

 

“Me?” Her cheeks flooded with warmth and she had to fight the urge to cover them with her hands. 

 

“Yes,” he held out a book towards her. “This just arrived, and besides me, you’re probably the only one who would appreciate it…” He trailed off as she took it from him and read the gold embossed lettering on the cover.

 

“ _ Little Women _ ,” she read. 

 

“It’s only volume one,” he explained. “But from what I’ve heard, it is a tremendous read.”

 

Hermione was unsure what to say to that, so she offered the book back to Draco, willing her cheeks to stop burning. Draco shook his head and she frowned, confused. 

 

“I thought you might like to read it between our sessions,” he said. “Then we can talk about it while you paint.”

 

“Oh.” Hermione said. She wished she could be more articulate, but her mouth had turned dry. “Thank you,” she managed a curtsey. 

 

“You’re welcome.” Draco flashed her a perfectly white grin and then swept back up the stairs, leaving Hermione reeling on the landing. 

 

By the time she had made it to Ginny, she was unable to contain the mixed soup of feelings swirling around inside of her; she was equal parts excited, confused, concerned, and terrified. Ginny took one look at her blotchy face and steered her on to a stool in the scullery. The red headed maid leaned against the sink and eyed Hermione with determination. 

 

“What is going on?” She whispered. “You’ve been mad as hops for weeks now!”

 

“Mister Malfoy just gave me a book to read.”

 

Ginny frowned. “I didn’t know you could read.”

 

“Well I can,” Hermione said irritably. If she was being honest, she rather wanted to return to her room and begin  _ Little Women. _

 

“I know what this is about,” her eyes shifted knowingly from the book to Hermione’s face. The brunette swallowed thickly. “You fancy him.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Admit it,” Ginny pushed away from the sink and came to crouch in front of Hermione, her blue eyes dancing with mirth and something akin to mischief; Hermione did not like that look. “You have feelings for the young Master Malfoy!” Ginny had lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, but Hermione still shushed her while glancing around the room as if expecting someone to burst in. 

  
“Lower your voice!” She insisted.

 

“You don’t deny it,” Ginny observed, a grin stretching her face impossibly wide. “Do you think he feels the same way?”

 

“I know he does,” Hermione said timidly. A flutter in her chest rose into a beating rhythm of drums as she uttered the words. 

 

Ginny inhaled sharply and then let out a squeal of glee. “Did he say as much?”

 

Hermione nodded, and Ginny squealed again, only this time at a frequency too high for most human beings to hear. “Stop it,” Hermione pleaded. “Please, Ginny. I couldn’t bear it if anyone found out about my folly. I could lose my job, and oh - ! Mister Malfoy would be  _ so _ embarrassed if he knew I’d told you.”

 

“He should be more poked-up that he hasn’t asked to court you properly,” Ginny was still grinning.

 

“It wouldn’t be proper,” Hermione stood from the stool and clutched the book to her chest. “I am here to work for the Malfoy family, not marry into it. He is, and always will be, above my station.”

 

“Pish-posh,” Ginny swatted her statement away as if it were merely an annoying fly. “The times are changing, my friend,” she said sagely. 

 

“Perhaps for some,” Hermione acquiesced. “But not here, and not in this case. Forget I told you anything.”

 

Ginny rolled her eyes, but nodded. She took Hermione’s face in her hands and whispered excitedly. “I will not breathe a word to anyone; but know this - I will be praying for you and Mister Malfoy every morning and every night. He needs someone like you in his life; a frail butterfly like his mother will not keep him entertained for long. And you, my dear friend, deserve the grandeur of a well-read lass.”

 

“You’re talking nonsense,” Hermione stepped out of her friend’s grasp, but she was smiling. “I’m retiring to my room until dinner. Please make sure no one disturbs me.”

 

Ginny nodded her assent and then turned back to the sink, a small smile playing on her face. 

  
  
  
  


“What did you think of it?” His voice came from behind her, and she jumped violently as she was dragged out of her day dream. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

 

He grinned at the way she clutched her heaving bosom, one hand still splayed on the low wall overlooking the grounds. He had seen her from his bedroom window, standing on the courtyard. Briefly, he had wondered if she meant for him to see her; but then he remembered that she was not privy to the layout of the upstairs floors, and therefore could not know the location of his bedroom. 

 

Another thought had formed then, that it was lucky that  _ he  _ did not know which of the servants’ bedrooms  _ she _ was currently occupying...but he had stopped the trajectory of that thought rather quickly; it was improper to think that way about a lady.

 

“What are you doing down here?” She asked. He frowned at her tone; it was far from welcoming. 

 

“I saw you,” he admitted slowly, “from my bedroom.” He pointed behind them towards an open window on the third floor. Her gaze followed his finger and then she turned abruptly back to face the grounds without responding. “Are you quite well?”

 

“I think it unwise to spend time together outside of our allotted sittings.” She said in a clipped tone. 

 

“I don’t understand?” His smile fell from his face and he willed her to look at him, but she seemed intent on a tree in the distance. 

 

“Mister Malfoy,” she licked her lips, a movement Draco caught as he stared at her profile. “I don’t believe that it is a secret that I have harbour some less than appropriate feelings for you, and from what I have observed, I sense that they are not entirely unrequited on your behalf.”

 

Draco was shocked; he had never known a woman to be so direct. He forced his tongue from its sticking place at the roof of his mouth in order to reply. “You would be correct.”

 

Hermione exhaled heavily through her nose and squeezed her eyes shut, as if steeling herself for a physically demanding errand. “I’m sorry,” she said through gritted teeth. “I need to go.”

 

“Wait!” As she turned to go, Draco stepped forward and grasped her arm. “Please,” he tugged and forced her to look up at him. His heart clenched when he saw the regret in her eyes.

 

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “We can’t do this.”

 

“Why not?” He breathed. 

 

“Because you can’t give up all of this,” she waved her hand towards the manor house, “for me.” She waved a hand half-heartedly down her body before letting it hang limp beside her. 

 

“Are you mad?” Draco whispered. “I’d give up everything for you in less time than it takes Father to judge me for my hair.” At her flummoxed look, Draco clarified; “It takes him no time at all, believe me.”

 

Hermione tugged her arm from Draco’s grasp; the feel of his hand on her skin was almost too much for her to withstand. “You would resent me.” She hadn’t meant to sound so bitter, but she was feeling rather overwhelmed with him so close, and it came out with more bite than she intended.

 

“You’re wrong,” he shook his head. “I know that this is incredibly forward of me,” he licked his lips and willed himself to stay where he was, rather than stepping closer to her, “but I would like the opportunity to court your properly. Please know,” he held up a hand as she opened her mouth to interject, “that should you leave here without me at least trying to tell you how I feel about you, I will regret it for the rest of my meaningless, worthless life.”

 

Hermione blinked up at him, feeling an all too familiar stinging feeling at the corner of her eyes. She had thought that she would do less crying since moving away from her father, but it seemed that she had actually cried more since arriving in Wiltshire.

 

“Mister Malfoy, I - “

 

“Shh,” he soothed, his other hand wrapping around her wrist again. He stepped closer to her; she had to look up to see him now. “I’m done pretending I don’t feel something for you; I can’t - I  _ won’t _ \- hide it any longer.”

 

“Your parents…” she whispered.

 

Draco scoffed. “They are the most miserable people I know; please don’t sign me over to a loveless marriage and several decades of wondering what if.”

 

“This is incredibly inappropriate,” Hermione breathed, though her words held no weight. Draco seemed to sense this and smiled wolfishly at her. 

 

“Would you like me to let go, Miss Granger?” 

 

Hermione glanced up at him, intent on telling him that  _ yes _ he should let go because she intended to stomp away from him with all that was left of her integrity and pride; but the notion evaporated as she looked into his stormy eyes. Now that she was before him, she could see the melting pools of silver reflecting the soft moonlight. Her breath caught in her throat and she allowed herself the moment to enjoy the way one of his strong arms wound around her waist, tugging her closer. The other rose to cup her face; the skin beneath the pad of his thumb flushed as he ran it along her jaw. 

 

As if he were a hypnotist and she a helpless volunteer, Hermione watched with wide eyes as his tongue flicked sinfully over his lower lip. His gaze dropped to her own mouth, which had fallen open slightly.

 

His head lowered infinitesimally towards hers, as if he was waiting for permission, but before she could give it, a shrill voice sounded from above. 

 

“Draco!”

 

They stepped apart immediately, stumbling as they did so. Draco glanced furtively from Hermione to the upstairs windows, his eyes alight with panic. 

 

“Mother?” He called back. 

 

“Where are you, darling?” Narcissa Malfoy’s voice trilled through the cool night air, effectively knocking the wind from Hermione’s chest. The brunette stumbled further into the shadows and attempted to stifle her heavy breathing. 

 

“I’m in the courtyard,” he called back, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll come to you presently.”

 

Narcissa did not reply, but Draco turned back to Hermione and whispered; “Wait here, she won’t keep me long.”

 

“Mister Malfoy,” Hermione hissed, stepping forwards until her face was once again thrown into sharp relief. “We cannot do this, not tonight...not ever.” It took all of her willpower to speak the words she knew had to be said. “You broke apart from me as if my touch might burn you the second you heard your mother call your name…” 

 

The obvious hurt in her voice was enough to send white hot panic coursing through Draco’s veins; it had been a shock, that’s all - he had meant everything he had said before his mother interrupted. 

 

“Miss Granger,” he swallowed thickly. “I must go and see what my mother wants, lest she come looking for me…” as if on cue, footsteps could be heard clunking down the stairs on the other side of the wooden doors. “But please, wait for me here and we shall discuss this properly.”

 

He bowed slightly as he hurried from her presence, and Hermione watched with warring emotions churning an ocean inside of her. Of course she wanted to wait for him to return. She wanted to hear him tell her over and over again that he would run away with her, if necessary, and that his life would hold no colour should she deny him. But while Hermione had always envied the heroines in the novels she read, she had always known that she was not destined to become one of them. 

 

The class system was strict, and her father’s social standing was abysmal. It would be irresponsible of her to give in to such an impossible idea, knowing full well that when Lord and Lady Malfoy found out their son’s heart belonged to a commoner, her reputation and family name would be tarnished. Her father had seen to it to destroy what little respect her mother had garnered, but she could not risk throwing her own hard work away on the romantic whimsy of a bored aristocrat. 

 

_ Surely that’s all this is, _ her wicked conscience whispered.  _ Mister Malfoy is only interested because you are new and shiny, from London...it wouldn’t take long into a courtship for him to realise you do not have anything substantial to offer him… _

 

Tears welled in her eyes as she gathered her skirts and stepped over the low garden wall. She was unsure of where she was going, but she knew she could not be in the courtyard when Mister Malfoy returned. 


	5. Candid Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco makes his intentions as clear as possible, though he grows frustrated at the unwillingness of his stubborn artist to accept his authentic feelings.

The following week, Hermione arrived at the library fifteen minutes before their pre arranged time. She told herself it was because she needed the extra time to mix the new pigments she had purchased in town, but if she was being honest, her earliness was actually due to her desire to speak with Mister Malfoy. 

 

She had avoided him like the plague since their conversation in the courtyard. In the solitude of her bedroom she could admit that she was embarrassed for running away from him. The heroines in her romance novels may be nodding their heads in understanding of her actions, but Hermione knew she had more gall than that, and she was ashamed to admit she had behaved in cowardice. 

 

That was why she had concluded the night before their next meeting that she needed to have an honest conversation with the object of her affections and tell him that whatever was between them was nothing more than a fling. She had escaped her father and family name, and Draco was acting out against a life that he had not mapped out himself. While she appreciated that he wanted something more from a relationship than a piece of paper and a decent business acquisition, she would not be the one to help him. Not like this. 

 

Her head snapped up as the door clicked open. She had been lost in the thought of what she was going to say to him, and so the sound forced a gasp from her lips. He entered the room slowly, his eyes guarded as if she was a wild animal who had escaped its cage, and which might possibly attack him. She watched as he came to stand three feet away from her, his hands hanging by his sides. He gazed at her for a long moment. And then;

 

“You left me.” He said simply. 

 

“Yes,” she breathed, unable to look away. 

 

“Why?” 

 

She took a deep breath, mentally arranging the speech she had painstakingly put together over the past few days. “Well, I - “

 

“Because I returned after I had spoken with Mother,” he interrupted, the words pouring from him as if he were physically unable to restrain his tongue. “I had been gone not ten minutes when I arrived back at the courtyard to find it empty. I looked for you,” his eyes flashed with something akin to disappointment, “for hours, I searched the grounds…”

 

“I’m sorry, I just don’t - “

 

“And as if that wasn’t enough,” he sneered, “you’ve been avoiding me since then, too. Not one servant in this gormed house has been able to inform me of your whereabouts.”

 

“Mister Malfoy!” Hermione’s eyes went wide at his language.  

 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed heavily in through his nose and out through his mouth. Turning from her, he placed one hand on his hip, and the other threaded into his platinum blond hair. “I just get so crazy wherever you’re concerned.” 

 

“Which is why we must end this, before we go too far.” 

 

“I don’t think I could ever go too far with you,” Draco shook his head. 

 

“Stalking me between paint sittings is going too far,” she hissed. “I realised, Mister Malfoy, as soon as you left to tend to your mother, that they would never accept me - not fully. And that while you say that I mean the world to you  _ now _ ,” she paused to tug at her lower lip with her teeth, “that may not always be the case…”

 

She trailed off as his eyes grew dark, his gaze dropping to her mouth. While she had been intent on convincing him that whatever was between them could not go any further, she felt her resolve quickly melting away like sludge off a rooftop.

 

“Miss Granger,” his voice was low and husky, full of inappropriate promises which made Hermione feel weak at the knees. “I can assure you that there are no circumstances in which I would not find you utterly desirable, and my only priority. What do you need me to say - or do, even - that will make you believe this?”

 

Hermione blinked up at him, the weight of his words settling about her shoulders. “It would not last,” she said, though her voice was strangled and she sounded lame to her own ears. “You would want your parents acceptance - perhaps not now!” She held up a hand as he snapped his mouth open to argue. “But one day, you will yearn for them to support your decision, and when they don’t, well...I fear that you will wonder what your life could have been like if you had  not met me.”

 

“It would be dull.” He sniffed, an air of finality in his words. 

 

Hermione scoffed impatiently. “You are blinded by lust, and it is beyond frustrating trying to make you understand my point!”

 

“My dear Miss Granger,” he smirked, “I assure you, I am just as frustrated, if not more so, but  _ your _ inability or unwillingness to see  _ my  _ point.”

 

Hermione gaped at him for a long moment in which he folded his arms across his chest and arched an eyebrow at her. It was an expression which clearly meant to challenge her, but Hermione could not think of a satisfactory reply. 

 

“My point,” he reiterated with another step in her direction, “is that I think I may be in love with you.” He whispered the last part and took another step forward; he was close enough to hear the hitch of Hermione’s breath as she inhaled. 

 

“Mister Malfoy, I - “

 

“I don’t expect you to return the sentiment,” he slowly raised a hand and used the tips of his fingers to brush a stray curl behind her ear. Hermione shuddered as a pleasant warmth spread across her face from the point of contact. 

 

“I feel very strongly about you,” Hermione licked her lips and felt her heart race when Draco’s gaze flickered teasingly downwards. “But I can’t help feeling that we are making a terrible mistake, being so forward like this.”

 

“Now, if you had of said that you feel nothing for me,” he whispered, “I would have left here heartbroken, but satisfied I had done everything in my power to assure myself that there is nothing left to pursue here,” he gestured quickly between them, his hand waving back and forth in the small space, “but now that you tell me that you feel similarly to me, Miss Granger, I have no choice but to continue in the same vein.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“There is a ball being held next week,” Draco stepped back suddenly as a pained expression crossed his face. “My mother intends for me to dance with all the ladies from neighbouring counties, and at the end of the  _ festivities _ ,” he spat the word with such loathing, Hermione startled as if he had cussed, “I am to tell Mother and Father which of the vapid creatures I intend to court, and eventually make my wife.”

 

Hermione felt her heart clench painfully, and for the first time, she imagined herself in a pretty dress, attending a ball, and dancing with the handsome and desirable bachelor. For a moment, she allowed herself to be swept up in the daydream that maybe - just maybe - what was beginning to form between her and the Earl of Wiltshire could be real. 


	6. Requited Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco finds Hermione drowning her sorrows as the ball carries on upstairs. Though she insists that he should be in attendance of the frivolity, Hermione is more than pleased when the young Malfoy heir takes her in his arms and waltzes her around the kitchens. However, their fun is soon halted; will their romance come to a premature end at the intrusion of Lucius?

Narcissa Malfoy’s balls were well known throughout England, even amongst the gentry from other counties. They were the grandest, most overly extravagant affairs held for aristocratic society besides the royal parties held at Buckingham Palace. 

 

As she observed the twirling guests in a rainbow of colours as they danced in the ballroom, she smiled to herself; this may just be the best party the Malfoy estate had ever seen. Narcissa brought her flute of champagne to her lips and sipped daintily. She only hoped that whomever Draco chose for a wife was just as gifted when it came to planning such events; it would be a source of deepest shame should he marry a woman who could not carry on the tradition. 

 

Her eyes locked on a golden-haired woman in a dress of pale blue; Astoria Greengrass. She was the eldest of the Greengrass sisters and also the prettiest, if Narcissa was being honest. The Malfoy matriarch smiled as the young lady curtsied to her partner and moved to the left. She would make a fine wife for Draco; she was well trained in lady’s etiquette, and could play the piano. Though Narcissa firmly believed a woman’s place was in the home, supporting her husband, she also thought it was wise for them to have a hobby to ensure they did not become idle and bored during non-peak party seasons and a man’s lengthy absence. 

 

The sound of a familiar voice drew her attention from Miss Greengrass and further into the room; his flash of platinum hair stood out amongst the crowd like a beacon and a sense of pride flared briefly in her chest as she watched her son. Draco was dressed in tails, and had taken the hand of a young woman whose face was unrecognisable from Narcissa’s position. From the dark hair which had been wound in to an elegant knot at the base of the young lady’s neck, the matriarch supposed it was the Parkinson girl. Narcissa watched as Draco brought her gloved hand to his lips, a small smile etched onto his face.

  
  
  
  


Several floors below, Hermione sat at the servant’s table alone with a deck of cards and a tumbler of whiskey. She knew that if her mother was alive, she would probably throw the drink in Hermione’s face and drag her by the ear to her bedroom for a good and proper verbal lashing, but in that moment Hermione could not understand why women didn’t drink hard liquor. 

 

She dealt herself in for solitaire. It was a game her father had taught her to play, against her mother’s wishes. All that was missing was a cigarette. Hermione laughed humourlessly to herself at that thought. Though her mother had been buried two years ago, she doubted she would ever have the courage required to light one, whiskey and solitaire aside. 

 

Her mother had wanted the world for her daughter; dreams of a life as a real lady had been given to Hermione more often than she had been told to follow her own desires. In this day and age, it was not proper for a lady to have wants and needs beyond that of her husband. Jean Granger had done her best to tame her wild child into the semblance of a desirable wife, and Hermione felt that she had done her mother proud in most aspects. 

 

Of course, she was unable to focus her energy on finding a husband since her mother’s passing, lest she wanted her father to become homeless. Such a responsibility tended to turn potential suitors off, and so Hermione remained chaste and unsullied, as well as unfulfilled and resentful to the man who had helped to raise her. 

 

She sighed as she arranged her cards, and took a sip of whiskey. It burned all the way down. Though she tried hard to ignore it, she could not help but notice the charming lilt of the music as it filtered down from several storeys above her. Her mother would say that it did not do to dwell on dreams, but then had Jean’s dream not been to see her daughter wed above her station? Hermione felt as if she would like to blame her mother for the ill fated feelings she had developed for the Malfoy heir, but she knew that that was childish. She pushed against the tide of emotions threatening to well up inside her, and instead turned back to the whiskey. 

 

Not five minutes later, there were footfalls on the stairs behind her. Hermione assumed it would be Ginny returning from stoking the fires in the bedrooms, or Mister Dursley returning with dishes from the feast. She kept her head down, focusing on the cards and did not turn around as the intruder stopped on the bottom step and paused. 

 

“Are you drinking?” 

 

Hermione whipped around, her eyes bright with shock and her cheeks tinged pink at having been caught out. 

 

“Mister Malfoy!” She gasped and hurried to stand. She fell into a clumsy curtsey and then raised her head; she did not - could not - meet his gaze, however. 

 

“I thought I might find you down here,” he stepped from the last of the stairs and stopped just in front of her, “sulking,” he added. 

 

“I am not sulking!” Hermione puffed her chest out in indignation, but even she had to admit that her tone was abysmally sullen and child like. She cleared her throat and tried again, this time with more grace. “What are you doing down here? Don’t you have a ball to attend, ladies to dance with…?”

 

His lips spread into a wolfish grin. “Yes, and so I did. But none of them are whom I  _ want _ to dance with.” He offered her his hand. 

 

Hermione suppressed a groan as a thousand butterflies awoke in her stomach and began fluttering around her abdomen. “I was not invited,” she said calmly, though her eyes were pools of frustration, “and I doubt that your mother meant for you to visit me in the kitchens so that you could ask for a dance.”

 

“I quite agree; she would be mortified to find me down here in the first place.”

 

“Then why don’t you leave?” It came out ruder than she intended, but Hermione found that she didn’t much mind at that moment.

 

Draco’s hand dropped back to his side and he sighed heavily through his mouth. “Miss Granger, I think I have made my intentions perfectly plain, and while you might think that your desires are not easily readable, I can assure you that they  _ are. _ It is as painfully obvious to me that you want this,” he gestured between them briefly, “just as it is painfully obvious that I am drawn to you like a moth to the flame.” 

 

Hermione ground her back teeth together at the audacity he had speaking to her this way. “I have not lied to you, Mister Malfoy,” she countered, willing her erratic breathing to even out. “I will not deny that I am attracted to you, very much so. But I will not disrespect your parents after all they have done for me, and I will not fool myself into thinking that I could make you happy for more than three years, at best.”

 

“It is more than frustrating that you will not believe me when I say that three years would not nearly be enough time for me to progress past the initial period of infatuation with you.” Hermione noted that his chest seemed to be heaving just as hers was, and her heart skipped a beat. “And I really wish that you would at least give me a chance to prove myself right.”

 

“And risk a broken heart on my behalf? I’d thank you for not expecting so much of me.” She tilted her nose into the air, forcing her to break eye contact with the heedy blond. 

 

He took another step forward. From the haughty positioning of her head, Hermione found herself once again lost in his mesmerising orbs of silver. They sparkled with mischief and another emotion Hermione did not want to linger on. She took a shaky breath and opened her mouth to ask him what he thought he was doing, but he silenced her by wrapping his right arm around her waist, and grasping her hand in his left. 

 

Without giving her a warning, Draco stepped forward, effectively forcing her into a simple waltz. She desperately tried to remember the basic steps as her mother had taught her in their living room back in London. 

 

_ Back, side, together...forward, side, close… _ she repeated in her mind. 

 

“Stop.” Draco’s voice was soft, his breath caressing the shell of her ear as he continued to lead them around the kitchen. “I can practically hear you overthinking.”

 

She laughed, a breathless tittering sound that made her cheeks flush an even deeper shade of crimson. Hermione forced herself to relax and found that she was actually enjoying herself in the arms of the Malfoy heir. She had just begun to get the hang of the steps when there came an angry voice from behind them. 

 

“Draco!” Lucius Malfoy stood on the second to last step and gazed down his nose at the scene before him, his eyes reflecting extreme distaste. “What is the meaning of this?” He spat, his focus coming to rest on the face of his son. 

 

“Father,” Draco inclined his head and turned to face Lucius, though he kept one arm around Hermione’s waist. “Miss Granger and I were just dancing. I felt it awfully unfair that she wasn’t invited to Mother’s ball and I - “

 

“Unfair?” Lucius hissed, descending the last step and coming to stand on the other side of the table. “You are embarrassing yourself and by extension your mother and I!” 

 

“I think you do that well enough on your own.” 

 

Lucius looked as if he might leap across the table an throttle his son. Hermione took a preemptive step back, and Draco copied her movement to keep his hand on her back. 

 

“You will come with me at once.” Lucius spoke through gritted teeth, his jowls aquiver with unbridled rage. He turned on his heel, his polished shoes making a squeaking noise as they turned on the stone floor. The Marquees had reached the first stair before he looked back over his shoulder and realised that he was not being followed. “Draco, come!” 

 

“I am not one of your terriers, Father,” Draco drawled. He could feel Hermione shaking next to him and pulled her closer to his person. Lucius caught the movement and his eyes flashed with utter loathing. 

 

“If you lie with dogs,” he looked Hermione up and down before returning his fuming face to Draco, “you are bound to catch fleas.” 

 

Draco growled low in his throat and he bared his teeth to reply to his father. “Miss Granger is not some lowly creature for you to look down your nose upon. She is a brilliant, talented, intelligent woman and I am irrevocably in love with her.” 

 

Lucius gazed at Draco for a long moment. His father’s face turned pale, to puce, and then settled somewhere between the two shades. Hermione waited with baited breath, but then Lucius turned and stomped up the stairs without saying another word.

 

When his father’s footsteps could no longer be heard, he turned to Hermione and took her hands in his. She allowed him to squeeze her palms as she gazed listlessly beyond his right shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he spoke quickly. “My father is...well, you know what he is.” He sighed and bent his head to press his warm lips to her forehead; she felt clammy. 

 

“It’s fine,” she whispered. “I - “ She cut herself off and licked her lips, a movement that did not go unnoticed by Draco; it never went unnoticed by her voracious Earl. “I love you, too.” Hermione felt her mouth curl around the words in a smile and she could not help the girlish giggle that bubbled up from her chest and into the space between her and Draco. 

 

The laughter was quickly cut off by a pair of warm lips, and this time Hermione did not hesitate as she wrapped her arms around Draco’s neck and kissed him back fervently. 

  
  
  



	7. Welcoming Wiltshire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the adversary of his parents, Draco and Hermione plan to run away together...but at the last minute, Hermione decides she cannot go through with it, the guilt of tearing Draco from his family and birth right too much for her young shoulders to bear. She leaves during dinner, but Draco Malfoy does not give up that easily...

The morning after the ball, Draco arrived at breakfast unable to contain the smile on his face. His cheeks hurt from the inability to relax them since Miss Granger had admitted that she loved him last night. The feeling of inexplicable bliss was short lived, however, as he entered the dining room and found his mother at the table sipping her tea. As if a switch had been flicked off on the back of his head, Draco’s smile fell to be quickly replaced with a guarded frown. 

 

“Mother?” His greeting was more of a question. Lady Malfoy did not often take her breakfast outside of her own chambers, and it was clear that her presence was not a positive omen. 

 

“Sit,” she said. Draco did as he was told and looked at her expectantly. “Your father told me what happened last night.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Draco, I hope you know that despite your atrocious attitude during the past few months, your father and I love you and only want the best - “

 

Draco cut her off with a loud and vastly inappropriate noise. Narcissa glowered at him. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he said, though his tone suggested that he was not sorry at all. “I just don’t understand why my having feelings for Miss Granger is such a travesty to you and Father.”

 

Narcissa pursed her lips and gazed at her son’s insolent face over the cup of her tea. “Lady McGonagall said - “

 

“I couldn’t give a damn what Lady McGonagall said,” Draco sniffed. 

 

Narcissa gasped. “Draco!” she said, clutching at the pearls on her chest. 

 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Lady McGonagall is living in the dark ages; if you’d prefer not to develop the same waxy complexion as that old hag, I suggest you join the rest of us in the present-day.” 

 

Narcissa looked as if he had slapped her; her hand was still around her throat. Under any other circumstances, Draco would have smirked and revelled in the way his mother sat gaping like a goldfish at his rudeness. During this instance, however, riling up Narcissa was not merely a game; it was a side effect of Draco being honest with himself for the first time in his life. 

 

“I have no desire to take over the Manorship, nor do I want to become the Marquees of Wiltshire.”

 

“Draco,” Narcissa’s hand had finally left her throat, and was now sitting tightly fisted in her lap. Draco started at her tone, which had changed from breathless shock to hardened warning. “You cannot speak like that. It is your birthright to take over the Manorship; you will be Lord of the estate, whether you like it or not.”

 

“Fine,” Draco said easily. “I will do as you bid; but only if I can marry whomever I choose.”

 

Narcissa made a strangled sound in the back of her throat and she moved quickly - quicker than she had moved in years - towards her son. Her chair scraped violently against the stone floor and she hurried to stand beside Draco. Her hand clutched his shoulder as she bent her head t his level, her nails digging painfully into the skin. “It is foolish and whimsical to think that one should marry for love,” she hissed. “You will straighten your head immediately, and breathe none of this to your father. Understood?”

 

Draco’s first instinct was to agree. He had spent all of his life agreeing with his parents; yes, he would attend that ball. No, he wouldn’t play with the odd child from the neighbouring county. But the assent died on his tongue as images of Hermione swam into the forefront of his mind. His mouth snapped shut and he stepped backwards, effectively forcing his mother’s touch from his person. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly as he rose from his seat. “But if you will not agree to my marrying Miss Granger, then I will not stay here. She is more important to me than some silly title, or money.”

 

“Come, Draco,” Narcissa gave him a wry smile, but her tone was slightly panicked. “This is folly; marrying for love is a foolish notion best left in literature.”

 

“Maybe for you it was, or is,” Draco shook his head as the excitement of what he was about to do crashed into him. “And for that I am sorry; I wish you could feel how I feel, but if that is not meant to be then fine. I am going to marry Hermione Granger; the world is changing, Mother.” He moved towards the door and placed his hand around the cool metal knob. “You would do well to realise that, and try to keep up.”

 

Narcissa narrowed her eyes as Draco turned the handle and pulled the door open. He made to step out of the room, but found that his way was blocked by a very shocked Hermione. 

 

“Miss Granger!” He breathed. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…”

 

“It’s alright,” Hermione held up a hand took a deep breath. Whatever she was about to say, however, was cut off by the clicking of Narcissa’s heels as she made her way towards the couple. 

 

“You,” she sneered at Hermione. “You’re the reason my son has developed delusions of romance and happily ever afters.”

 

“With all due respect, Lady Malfoy - “

 

“Respect?” Narcissa shrieked. “What would you know of respect, you vile hedge-creeper?”

 

“Mother!” Draco’s eyes flashed and Narcissa snapped her mouth shut, though her lips were thinner than he had ever seen them.

 

“What’s going on here?” Lucius had appeared on the other side of the library. He clicked the door closed behind him and spoke as he crossed the room. “Narcissa,” he hissed, “your voice can be heard from the servant’s stairwell. Draco,” he turned to his son as he came to stand beside his wife, “what have you done that warrants your mother shrieking like a banshee?”

 

Draco opened his mouth to speak, his left hand rising to grasp Hermione on the forearm. Lucius caught the movement and made a noise of contempt through his nostrils. “Come now, Draco,” he said. “Let the girl go; she need not be the reason our family is torn apart.”

 

“You are the reason our family has  _ already  _ been torn apart,” Draco spat as he glanced between his parents. “Both of you are.”

 

Lucius stared coldly at his son for a long moment, before sliding his gaze over to Hermione, who stiffened suddenly. “Miss Granger,” he finally said. “Your services are no longer required. And I hope,” he glanced back to Draco momentarily, “that you will understand that you will leave here without pay. Our hospitality is not something to take for granted; nor is our financial generosity.” 

 

Hermione expected Draco to say something, the way he was looking from his mother to his father with the ugliest expression she had seen him wearing. She was taken by surprise when he turned on his heel and marched from the room, dragging Hermione behind him. 

 

“Ouch! Draco, you’re hurting me.” She struggled to free her arm, and at her words he dropped it as if it had burned him. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he panted as they reached the stairs which led to the kitchens. “They just make me so angry.” He looked down at her, remorse filling him as he watched her rub the place his hand had wrapped around her small arm. 

 

As the pain subsided, she glanced up at him and felt her heart clench in desperation. She wanted this man more than anything she had ever wanted in her life; she would die for him. She knew it was stupid; she had only known him for a few months. But, she supposed, love doesn't always make sense. “I don’t want you to give up your family for me,” she breathed. 

 

Draco released a long exhale through his mouth before stepping closer. He was less than a foot away now, and she could count all of the individual eyelashes that framed his eyes. “I would give up the world for you,” he murmured. 

 

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat and a thrilling shiver ran up her spine. “I would never ask you to do that,” she whispered. 

 

“You don’t have to,” Draco shook his head and took one of her hands in both of his. “I want to marry you, and I will; even if it does mean leaving Wiltshire and starting over somewhere else. I love you.”

 

Hermione felt heat radiate from where they were connected, up her arm, and throughout the rest of her body. A slow smile spread across her face and she revelled in the way his gaze dropped to her lips. “I love you, too.” She murmured. 

 

Though his upper class sensibilities told him that what he was doing was not strictly proper, he bent his head quickly and claimed her mouth in a searing yet short kiss. Hermione felt her legs shake as he pulled away, and she had to fight the urge to tug him back to her. 

 

“I hope you know,” he murmured against her cheek, “that should I have access to my family fortune at this time, I would buy you a ring and ask you to make me the happiest man in England.” She squeaked at this, and Draco smirked. “However, I am as poor as a church mouse and so I want to save that question until I can ask it properly.” He stepped back and clasped Hermione’s hands in his own, his grey eyes looking tenderly into her chocolate coloured orbs. “Instead, I would like to ask you something different, though no less exciting and important; will you run away with me?”

 

In that moment, it was all Hermione could do to keep herself upright and focused on the beautiful man in front of her. Perhaps it was his close proximity that made her nod her head and accept his proposal with a breathless “yes!” 

 

He had taken her in his arms once more, and then they had separated in a hurry to pack for their new adventure. 

  
  
  
  


However, hours later as Hermione closed the lid of her suitcase, the reality of what she and Draco were about to do hit her with a force so great she was winded and had to sit down. As she clutched her side and willed the air into her lungs, she realised that she had made a mistake; accepting Draco’s proposal, even if it was not one of marriage, was a foolish idea. She had known their romance was doomed from the start, and it took being away from the man who had stolen her heart to understand the gravity of her decision. 

 

Once she had regained control of her breathing, Hermione stood shakily; she knew what she had to do. Their train was due to leave tomorrow morning at 9am. The plan was to be up and at the station before the Lord and Lady were awake. By the time they realised their son was missing, he would be halfway to London with Hermione. But with her revised itinerary, Hermione would be leaving Wiltshire alone...the thought seemed to cause pockets of erosion in her chest, and she placed a hand over the burning area as she prepared to meet the coachman at the front door. 

 

The Malfoys were at dinner; her absence would not be discovered until the next morning, when Draco would go to meet her. She took a great, shuddering breath as she placed an envelope with his name scrawled on the front of it on the end of her well-made bed. Her eyes welled with tears and she forced them back, stepping towards the door and exiting the room without looking back. 

 

It had been arranged with the staff that Hermione would meet Pettigrew at the door, and he would take her to the train station in time to catch the evening train back to London. Ensuring she had all of her belongings, Hermione hurried from the servant’s quarters towards the front of the house. Pettigrew helped her in to the carriage before climbing into the driver’s seat and steering them away from Malfoy Manor. 

 

Once again, Hermione refused to look back. 

 

In the solace of the carriage, she let her tears fall. She did not sob, but simply allowed the river of salty water to flow from her eyes, down her cheeks, to her chin where they then dropped on to the front of her travelling coat. As more distance was placed between her and the love her life, Hermione felt her heart shatter inside her ribcage and she welcomed the onslaught of overwhelming sadness as it engulfed her in a cruel embrace. 

 

By the time they reached the train station, she was exhausted and looked a fright. Pettigrew, who had not been privy to the outpouring of emotions in the back of the carriage, stumbled back upon seeing Hermione’s wet and blotchy face. 

 

“Don’t worry about me, Peter,” she croaked. “It’s for the best.”

 

The coachman nodded and busied himself with the bags, his cheeks decidedly crimson. Hermione could not manage a smirk at his expense, and instead turned away from the odd little man to study the train. 

 

It looked the same as the one which had brought her here. She grimaced at the thought of how she had felt back then; so ignorant and full of silly dreams. Hermione sighed and clasped her hands together.

 

“Thank you,” she murmured as Pettigrew waddled across the platform with her case, and ensured that it was stowed safely away on the train. 

 

“Well,” he said in his squeaky voice upon his return, “I wish you the best of luck, Miss - “ Pettigrew snapped his mouth shut quickly, his eyes bugging. The overall effect was definitely rodent-like as his buck-teeth hung over his bottom lip, his eyes as wide as saucers. 

 

“Hermione!” 

 

An unfamiliar salutation in a very familiar voice sent a shock wave up Hermione’s spine and she feared that she may be frozen in place forever. She turned rigidly as if in slow motion, and let out a strangled shrieking noise at the sight before her. 

 

Draco was running up the platform, still in his dinner things, knocking people out of the way and weaving between garbage cans as he moved towards her. Panting, he came to a stop right in front of her and collapsed forwards, his hands on his knees as he tried desperately to catch his breath. 

 

“Mister Malfoy,” Hermione said, her voice reflecting her utter shock. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I - followed - you,” he panted. “I - heard - the - carriage - leave.”

 

Hermione eyed Pettigrew and the strange man offered her a half-hearted shrug. 

  
“How did you get here so quickly, I don’t - “

 

“I rode,” Draco gestured behind him and stood straight, one hand still clutching at a stitch in his side. Hermione’s gaze landed beyond the crazy blond man in front of her and landed on the figure of a brown horse in the distance. 

 

“You came after me.” Hermione could not help the smile as it slowly spread across her features. 

 

“Of course I did,” Draco snapped, and Hermione’s smile slipped as she realised he was not happy with her. “Why did you leave without me?” He demanded. 

 

Hermione swallowed thickly, the prickling feeling behind her eyes returning with a vengeance. “Oh, Draco,” she sighed as she blinked back the tears. “I just started thinking about everything you were giving up, and I feared you would one day resent me for taking you away from it.”

 

Draco ran a hand frustratedly through his hair, a low growl rumbling through his chest. “You will, without a doubt, be the death of me,” he said through gritted teeth. Hermione gathered that some women might find his tone frightening, but it only made her feel exhilarated. “When are you going to understand that the only thing I am terrified of losing, is you?”

 

Time came to a standstill, as it often did when Hermione was overwhelmed by the sensation of Draco’s lips on hers, as the blond reached for her and tugged her to him without so much as a warning. She was buried in his warm and sturdy chest, the smell of him intoxicating her and making her feel as though she may not be able to stand on her own. Wrapping her own arms around his middle, she squeezed gently and murmured an apology into the starchy fabric of his buttoned shirt. His responding rumble from deep within his chest told her that she was forgiven; at least for now. 


	8. Malfoy Masterpiece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione reflects on her life seven years on from the day Draco had nearly killed himself to stop her from boarding a train that would have ended their relationship before it could fully form. Sweet, HEA, epilogue.

“Watch this!” A squeal of excitement forced Hermione’s gaze towards the great spans of lawn at the back of Malfoy Manor. “Mummy, look what I can do!” Her five year old son grinned triumphantly, his grey eyes alight with excitement, as he watched the colourful diamond soar above him. 

 

“That’s amazing, darling!” Hermione called from her seat; at nearly seven months pregnant with her second child, her energy often left her in the evening times. She smiled at the delight on the boy’s face, her gaze sliding to her husband, whose big hands were wrapped around Septimus’ smaller ones, guiding the kite.

 

The path to happiness had not been easy for Hermione and Draco. But, together, they fought adversary after adversary, and overcame every obstacle stronger and more in love than before. Lucius had never fully accepted her into the family, but he passed away before Septimus had been born. Without her husband around, and witnessing the sheer happiness Hermione brought to Draco, Narcissa had warmed to the common girl enough that it was no longer awkward at dinner times. 

 

When Septimus had been born, Hermione was terrified that the matriarch would somehow manipulate the situation to either remove Hermione from it entirely, or turn her son against her. But all of those fears had been unfounded; Narcissa loved Septimus with her whole heart, and seemed to have accepted Hermione further as the young woman embraced her new role as a mother. 

 

Draco had stepped into the role of Marquees of Wiltshire, with Hermione assuming the title of his wife. Though he had fought the birthright for the years preceding his father's death, Draco found that he actually enjoyed running the estate, and with Lucius no longer breathing down his neck, the young man was able to experiment with new and innovative models of business. 

 

Hermione’s father had given up on his dental practice and instead turned to the more respectable and lucrative business of shoe making. He found that he had a real knack for it, and Hermione tried hard not to lament the wasted years he could have provided for his family. Though she did not see him often, Hermione kept in contact with William Granger, and felt that their relationship was stronger than it ever had been, despite the obvious difference in their current lifestyles. 

 

As Hermione continued to watch her husband teach their son how to fly a kite in the autumn afternoon, she smiled to herself. She picked up the paintbrush to her left and began to outline the scene on a fresh piece of canvas; though she had never given up on her art, despite the protests of the Malfoy Matriarch, Hermione knew that the perfect family she had created with her husband would always be her greatest masterpiece. 


End file.
